


No Such Thing

by ChocolateCannibal



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Awkward Conversations, Coincidences, F/M, Fate & Destiny, Fluff, Frame Narrative, Humor, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-13
Updated: 2017-01-24
Packaged: 2018-04-04 06:31:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 8,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4128342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChocolateCannibal/pseuds/ChocolateCannibal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik the Unremarkable was an ordinary adventurer with a knack for running into the Dragonborn at the worst possible time. He didn't believe in fate, but you know what they say about coincidence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Contract

He was offended she didn’t recognize him.

“Helgen,” Erik pleaded.

“Yes, I’ve been there,” she replied, stalking him around the campfire.

“Bleak Falls Barrow,” he pressed, reaching for his axe. Just in case, though if this came to a fight...

“Huh. Heard terrible things about that place.” The girl unsheathed a Daedric dagger. Frost coated the enchanted blade and surrounded the black metal with white mist. By Talos- there was no _fucking_ way. He didn’t stand a chance, but he _really_ didn’t want it to end like this.

“Rorikstead, College of Winterhold, Solitude, Windhelm-“

“You’re just listing random places-” She adjusted her grip on the weapon. Her other hand glowed a warm, mesmerizing green. Illusion magic- “It’s a calm spell. Don’t worry, you won’t feel a thing. No fear, no pain.”

“What- No! For fuck’s sake, we’re both members of the Thieves’ Guild!”

This gave her a pause. The girl glared sharply, asking with her eyes, ‘Then why haven’t I heard of you?’

‘Because you’re incredibly dense!’ He wanted to bellow, but didn’t because he was not ready to get stabbed in the neck by an enchanted dagger.

“And I was at Dragonbridge when you killed-“

“Ssh!”

“We’re the only two people here!”

“I heard the Dark Brotherhood was behind that,“ she said, apparently unconvinced of his sincerity and dead-set on denying everything.

“Is that what you’re doing in Dawnstar? And why you’re all the way out here in the middle of _nowhere_?”

This stopped her infernal pacing. “How do _you_ know about the new sanctuary?”

“Delvin and I are on very friendly terms,” Erik answered with a hint of a grin.

“Bastard. I should have a word with him.”

“So you admit it.”

“Admit what?”

Erik rolled his eyes. The Dragonborn was denser than a sack of dead mudcrabs.

“Are you here to kill me?” he pressed.

“Have you been following me?” She countered.

“Answer my question first.”

“Fine. Yes, there is a contract, but if you’re really a member of the guild…”

“I have not lied to you. Not once.” Not that there would be a point.

“Then tell me the whole truth.” She sheathed the dagger and leaned back against the wall of the cave, crossing her arms and balancing on one leg.

“It’s a long story.” Erik tried to make it look like he was casually taking a seat. In truth, his knees were too weak from relief to hold him up any longer.

“I had no other plans tonight.”

The words ‘ _besides killing you_ ’ hung in the air as if she said them aloud.

“Alright, where do I begin?”

“Tell me how you came to be at Helgen.”


	2. The Stormcloak Camp

He wasn’t with the Stormcloaks. Well, he was with the Stormcloaks, but not _with_ them- just needed some armor repaired, and that particular camp was the closest place with a blacksmith.

“An Imperial,“ remarked the soot-covered blacksmith.

“Could be a spy,” replied the bald Nord.

“A spy would have a better disguise. No, looks like this is the work of too much mead.”

“Little too young to be having so much of that, don’t you think?’

“Perhaps. Ulfric said-“

“Pardon me,” Erik interrupted the two men.

“Who are you? A new recruit?”

Erik was a Nord. A Nord with no interest in petty politics and fickle allegiances, which made him an _unusual_ Nord- but a Nord nonetheless. He opened his mouth to correct the smith-

“You’re a big lad, but I’m sure we’ve got something to fit you. Light, medium or heavy?”

-And changed his mind. Why pay for repairs to an old, rusted, iron piece of shit when he could get some hot-from-the-forge steel for free?

“Heavy suits my style.”

“Ah, a man after my own heart. Coming right up.”

Erik crossed his arms, leaned back against a wooden post, and tried to avoid eye contact with the bald Stormcloak whose conversation he's interrupted. He didn’t care for small talk or familiarity with people he planned to steal from.

The bald man didn’t take the hint.

“Did you hear about the girl?” He didn’t wait for an answer, “She wandered into camp last night and asked why king uncle Septim drank Spriggan Sap from a tusk o’ a Horker, or some other nonsense. Could have been code. Sounded lucid and walked a straight line- so we took her to Ulfric for questioning…”

That last name sounded familiar. The bald man (whose name Erik also did not know, nor care to) said ‘Ulfric’ with a special reverence. Like everyone should know who that is, and especially a Stormcloak recruit.

Instead of saying “who’s that,” Eric opted for: “And?”

“ _And_ nothing. She took one look at him, giggled, and fainted. I think it might be a trick. Joren says there’s no way- none of it makes any sense- but that might be exactly why she did it. To get us all turned around.”

That was the stupidest fucking thing he ever heard.

“Makes sense,” Erik lied.

“Doesn’t it? Especially with that face. A strange look, like some sort of-“

“Here it is. Now, I didn’t catch your name,” the smith interrupted, armor in one hand and a list in the other. A list of names of _actual_ recruits, Erik realized.

Well. It seemed a little too easy, but maybe he could push his luck.

“Erik.”

The blacksmith hummed as he scanned the list, then aha-ed.

“Erik the Strong or Erik the Tall?”

It was a common name.

“Either one,” Erik answered without thinking.

The smith gave him a strange look, then shrugged and thrust the armor at him.

“Welcome to the war, son. Best put this on right away. We're expecting an ambush.”

Erik decided to find a cluster of shady trees under the pretense of wanting privacy. He should have bolted right away, but it had been so damn long since he wore something _not_ reeking of old rust, dried sweat, and crusted blood. The steel was cold as ice, smooth as a mirror, and smelled like the first snow of a new winter. On the inside, it was soft and warm.

No, he wouldn’t wait.

The instant the last plate clinked into place, the world flashed to grey, then faded to black…

“… Next thing I know, I’m on the back of a carriage, wedged between a barrel full of rotting apples and a _really smelly_ Nord- not one of Ulfric’s men, though. Heard ringing in one ear, like a screaming fly, and everything was-”

“Bright, blurry, far away,” she finished for him, removing the bow from her back and unstrapping the quiver of arrows.

“Right. Exactly.”

She sat down across from him and continued, “That was a year ago today. I was tired, thirsty and feeling, um...” dark eyes glazed over, refocused, “There was an Argonian who said she had just the thing. And she did.”

Then it wasn’t mead. Huh. So, that was _her_ at the camp- the 'Imperial Spy' that drank too much (Skooma, from the sound of it) and fainted on Ulfric. Of course it was. Always her, always the same thing, no matter where he went.

The girl pulled her hood back from her face, hugged her knees to her chest, and gazed into the fire crackling between them.

Erik stared. Well, ‘gaped’ might be a better word.

The bald man at the Stormcloak encampment made note of her face. He didn’t call her ‘pretty,’ or ‘beautiful,’ because _this_ was something beyond simple appearance. She – _this_ \- was the smell of earth after the first spring rain, in human form. Clean, simple, and timeless. For some reason, though anyone who looked at her could see _this_ (they _had_ to, right?) none were shocked into silence like he was just then. As he was every other time, too.

Erik remembered the first time he saw that face. Lots of things changed since–by Talos, a whole _year_ had gone by already!- but not _this_.

“Tell me.”

“What?” he could feel himself flush, but didn’t feel compelled to hid it.

“The rest of it. You have a remarkable memory.”

Like he could forget about any of _this_ if he wanted to.

“Right. So you remember- they dragged us off the wagons and lined us up like cattle…”


	3. Helgen

“Lokir of Rorikstead.”

Erik realized belatedly that the Nord smelled like piss because he pissed himself out of fear. Luckily, Lokir appeared too underfed to have eaten enough to shit, or would probably be reeking of that too.

“Don’t do it,” he whispered, but… Yes, he ran. And they shot him.

Erik winced.

This was the end of the line, or close to it. He was behind a black-haired woman dressed in flimsy rags. The Imperial soldiers had a list, perhaps even the same list the smith checked for recruits in need of armor. Didn’t seem to matter what was on it, though.

“Wait. You there, step forward. Who are you?”

“Rona.” No title, no village, no family name.

“You’re a long way from the Imperial City. What’re you doing in Skyrim?” the soldier narrowed his eyes at this _Rona_ , then turned to the woman beside him, “Captain, what should we do? She’s not on the list.”

“Forget the list. She goes to the block.”

Another entry in a long, ever-growing list of Things That Just Didn’t Make Sense to Erik: Why did the _Imperials_ sentence the _Imperial_ to death? 

Erik identified himself to the soldiers as ‘Erik,’ resigned to his fate.

“Erik the Strong, or Erik the Tall?” Asked the Imperial man, scanning the list.

“Like it matters,” answered Erik the Unremarkable, then turned toward the chopping block.

Blood, a box of severed heads, a pile of headless bodies, and the woman with black hair. No, not a woman. A _girl_. Her face was young, unscarred, unmarked. Dark, golden-brown skin, too smooth to have been colored by sunlight or windburn, glistened with sweat under the watery sun. She stood out like a green weed in a field of dry dirt and dead grass.

He stared.

She turned to him. Silvery blue met steely black, and though she _looked_ , he doubted he _saw_ him like he was seeing her.

The executioner pushed the girl to her knees.

“Don’t,” Erik wanted to shout, but couldn’t because when she calmly rested her cheek on the filthy wood, the world tilted sideways. His feet were still on the ground and the stone tower upright and in sight, but a sudden fear roared in his chest like the cry of an ancient dragon. The executioner raised his axe. Erik realized, suddenly, senselessly, that the world would have no purpose without her in it.

It wasn’t lust or delusion or infatuation –too soon for anything like that, regardless- just a simple truth he felt down to the marrow of his bones. They would all be lost without her, and he would be more lost than all the rest put together. Erik was dizzy, swaying, and more ready to lose his life than _this_. No, _this_ was everything, and everything was about to end with a swing of the headsman’s axe.

The moment shattered.

A _real_ dragon, not the one he felt screaming in his fragile, mortal soul, shook the world upright. The executioner tumbled backwards. With a rumble of scorching thunder, everything burst into flames.

And Erik could breathe again. The fear was gone, as was the ridiculous notion that some skinny rag-clad Imperial _girl_ was the focal point around which Mundus and all realms beyond revolved…

“…Then, I followed the rest of the Stormcloaks to a stone keep, past the dead Captain, through a torture chamber with a dead mage, dead Imperial-“ he counted them off with his fingers “-and more dead soldiers from both sides…” Erik dropped his hand when he realized there were too many, and drew a deep breath before continuing, “So I waited out the battle in the cave, then waited a little longer. Everyone else was dead or gone by the time I moved forward. Took me a while to find the way out. There was also a dead bear. Someone had shot it clean through the eye.”

His gaze landed on her bow, which buzzed and shimmered with shock magic and oozed the same mist as her dagger.

“Yes, that was me. Lucky shot-”

“Doubt it,” he muttered.

“-But you lied.”

Not this again.

“Like hell I did. After all this, you can’t possibly-“

“When you said you didn’t follow me.”

Oh. That.

“I didn’t know it was you.”

Though it always was.

“Fair enough,” she conceded.

“So…”

“Please continue.”

Exasperated, he asked, “Still need to be convinced not to kill me?”

“I’m not going to kill you. I wouldn’t, even if everything you’re saying is a lie. I don’t think I can, or you’d be dead already.”

“What does _that_ mean?”

“You think I’m dense,” she remarked without accusation.

Erik opened his mouth to deny it or ask how the hell she knew, but something in Rona’s look stopped him.

“While I find you to be… Transparent,” she finished, and waited.

It wasn’t an explanation, unless explanations were _supposed_ to create more confusion and a thousand burning questions. Erik decided it was better not to press his luck, and tell her how he ended up at that god-forsaken crypt. _Bleak Falls Barrow._


	4. Bleak Falls Barrow

The moons were out. A good thing, because after the darkness of the cave, sunlight would have stung. A bad thing, because of bandits, wolves, and his propensity for getting lost.

At least the air was clean, not reeking of giant spider shit and desiccated corpses. The fur lining of the armor kept him warm. He also managed to scrounge some tomatoes and septims (really, the things people leave laying around in dangerous places) so dinner was a non-issue.

Most importantly, by some remarkable stroke of luck, he was alive.

“But what next?” Erik asked, admiring the stars he never thought he’d see again.

That’s when he felt it. An elusive, invisible pull that brought his gaze to something… A shape in the distance darker than the night sky. Gods only knew where the nearest village was, and the night would only grow colder. Feral animals. Criminals without a code. And now, d _ragons_.

Erik shivered.

It didn’t cross his mind that wolves and bandits could have been inside the structure in the distance. He didn’t wonder what it was, either. Perhaps it was a crypt, a crumbling ruin, or a house for rogue mages and deadly traps, but he was willing to take his chances.

Part of him knew his logic was illogical- that it would be better to find shelter against the side of a mountain, or some small cave- but he didn’t care. Maybe it was a bad idea, but he wanted to go.

No, he _had_ to get there, and soon.

The sky paled as he approached the high stone arches that marked the path to his destination. Erik had been walking all night, but didn’t feel tired or hungry or any need but the need to keep going. He couldn’t recall the journey, though it probably consisted of trees, more trees, and the odd shack occupied by a senile hermit.

Stares pricked the back of his neck, but he ignored the feeling. He had to make it to... Whatever lay at the end of this path. Everything else was secondary.

Clouds gathered overhead. The air chilled until even the slightest breeze burned. His eyes watered. Toes went numb. Breath came in short, strained puffs.

Finally, _finally_ , he reached the entrance to this… Place. It wouldn’t be his first time in a crypt, fighting hordes of draugr and skeevers for whatever treasure lay at the end of the journey.

He put his hand on the enormous door.

“Don’t move.” Cold, sharp ice pressed to the back of his exposed neck. A blade. “You picked a bad time to get lost, friend.” 

“He should have killed me right away. You know how bandits are. Turns out, they lost people a recent raid on a caravan going to the Riverwood Trader, and were looking for recruits. I told them I deserted the Stormcloaks and their cause.” It wasn’t far from the truth, which was the key to any good lie.

She nodded. “Enemy of my enemy.”

Bandit gangs were comprised of Redguards, Orcs, Elves and Nords alike. The Stormcloaks’ philosophy, that Skyrim belongs to the Nords, was as much a threat as the Imperials’ fixation on law and order.

“That’s right.”

“So, you… _Joined_ _the_ _bandits_ ,” she said, raising an eyebrow.

Erik flashed a crooked grin. “It wasn’t as bad as you think.”

Their leader was Arvel the Swift, a Dunmer who liked to rave about “the power of the Ancient Nord heroes,” how he would use "the claw" to enter the deeper reaches of the barrow once the stars aligned, and take that power for himself.

Erik was unconvinced, but smiled, nodded, and did as he was told, because he did not want to get fucked over twice in one week.

Arvel made it very clear that leaving the band was not an option, “Unless you want to go the rest of your life on one foot. Not an easy feat- deserting comrades with just one foot to get around, though I know it must be a hard habit to break.”

So, the fact that kept the bandits from killing him on the spot, was the same thing that made them watchful enough to prevent escape. 

“Heard about the claw from a -shall we say _friend_ \- in the Thieves’ Guild down in Riften. They were planning a heist. Won’t be too happy I got it first, but it should fetch a hefty price once I bring it back to them,” Arvel ranted one night as they roasted skeevers on a spit and drank some truly terrible mead.

Erik often had trouble deciding whether to first burn his tongue on the charred skeever hide to keep from tasting the piss-flavored drink, or numb his senses by getting drunk so he could stomach the shitty food. He ended up doing both.

Honestly, that was the worst of it.

The other bandits weren’t too bad. They were smelly, stupid, and violent, but who wouldn’t be, eating and living as they did?

 Also, Arvel taught him how to _properly_ pick a lock and sneak around without getting caught.

“Doesn’t matter how big you are, or how heavy your armor is…” Arvel trailed off, hiccupped, then took a long swig, “Okay, it matters a _little_ , but what matters more is that you-“ he swayed and squinted as he searched for the right words, “Keep to the shadows and as you get closer, keep in _their_ shadow. Out of sight, out of mind, though the best of us know how to hide in plain sight.”

Erik smiled, nodded, and wondered when the drunken bastard would finally shut up.

“Makes sense,” he lied.

Arvel furrowed his brow, suddenly very serious. “Become the shadow, boy, _in your mind_. If you think like a shadow, you turn into one. Everywhere the sun shines, there are places to hide.” With that, he promptly fell asleep.

He found himself mulling over the Dunmer's (utterly nonsensical) advice. Even tried a few of the tricks. In his spare time (which was abundant because bandits were notoriously lazy) Erik picked the lock to the chest by the campfire again and again, until he could do it with his eyes closed, and eavesdropped on his so-called comrades from the darkness, inching closer to see if they’d catch him.

It was effective. The more he thought like a shadow, the closer he could get before they saw.

One night, he even managed to snag Harknir’s coin purse. The night after, Erik decided to make his escape.


	5. Bleak Falls Barrow II

Arvel went to explore the depths and took half the men guarding the entrance with him. Erik was hiding by the doorway for someone to come in so he could slip out unnoticed. Ancient stone doors were incredibly loud and heavy, which would defeat the purpose of sneaking out to roam Skyrim on his own _two_ feet.

The door opened.

He froze.

What _if_ they caught him? There wasn’t much even an _extraordinary_ adventurer could do on one foot, and he was mediocre at best.

This was a bad idea, but just the thought of spending one more night in this dark, dank, suffocating sewer was _fucking_ unbearable. He should go. He couldn’t move. It was time to leave. They might amputate his foot.

Fear turned to indecision. Erik remained paralyzed.

He saw a shadow slip through the crack in the doorway. What should have been a grating creak followed by a resounding thud, was no more intrusive than the sound of a single muffled footstep.

He didn’t understand.

The shadow slid silently to the darkness on the other side of the barrow’s entrance. The three bandits seated around the campfire each slumped over, as if simultaneously overcome by an excess of mead. Erik squinted. Spikes- no, long sticks- protruded from the exposed chest of Bjorn’s hide armor, Greta’s neck, and Harkir’s eye.

The shadow emerged from the dark corner and shifted into a person. A woman in leather armor, with a copper and moonstone circlet around her head and a simple hunting bow across her back. There was something… _Familiar_ about the fluid efficiency of her movements. The feeling grew when he glimpsed the curve of her cheekbone as she crouched to loot the corpses. It became impossible to ignore when she kneeled in front of the chest to pick the lock. Erik saw enough of her profile to become certain he knew her, but not enough to place how or from where. He inched to the left for a slightly better angle. Something crunched under his foot. Perhaps brittle bones of a decaying skeever, or the exoskeleton of a frostbite spider.

He didn’t have a chance to look.

With a flurry of motion so quick, Erik missed most of it though he did _not_ blink, the woman whirled around, drew her bow, nocked an arrow, and aimed it at (even from the distance, he knew its mark, and that it would strike true) his unarmored throat.

Gently, she commanded, “Step forward or die.”

At least he knew why she was familiar. It was the girl from Helgen, the one who took his voice and made him certain the world was about to end.

Erik was scared shitless. The fear saturated every particle of his being and should have left no room for anything else, but underneath it was a strange feeling of… Peace. Resignation, but not to death. Something else. Something more than he had the words for.

A breeze ghosted across the side of his neck. It left a slight tingle- no, a _sting_ \- and a small trail of moisture.

An arrow. That was an arrow, and it cut him.

“This is your last warning, bandit.”

Erik tripped in his hurry to comply.

The girl’s expression remained clear when he stepped into the light, though Erik thought she faltered for a fraction of a second.

“Do I know you?” She asked without inflection.

“Yes. I w-was one of the S-Stormcloaks in Helgen.”

“I thought Ralof was the last of them,” She remarked in a way that made him wonder if this _Ralof_ didn’t also die by her hand, “What are you doing here?”

“I was captured by the bandits. I’m not one of them, I swear! I just want to get out of this place.”

“Why should I believe you?”

Erik reached for the war axe at his hip. Rona wasn’t having that, apparently, because another arrow whizzed past the other side of his throat. He gasped at the sting and reflexively slapped his own neck. Ouch.

That was the last straw. First the Imperials, then the bandits, now this girl- whoever the _hell_ she though she was- with all their unwarranted threats and suspicion, like being in the wrong place at the wrong time was some crime punishable by death.

“Would you _fucking_ _stop that_?” Erik snapped.

So he was going to die. Again. For no good reason.

Might as well do it with a shred of dignity.

Erik removed his steel axe from its holster, dropped it to the ground, and kicked it forward. He did the same with his shield and helmet, glaring at his would-be murderer the whole time. Then, turned his back to her, raised both his hands in the air, and sunk to his knees.

“You’ll be killing an innocent man,” he spoke through gritted teeth, facing the wall.

(It wasn’t a total lie.)

Erik closed his eyes and thought back to Helgen. What if the dragon arrived just a moment later? What if the headsman had a chance to- _No_. He couldn't bring himself to finish even the _thought_ of it, and decided it was better that he died instead of her, even if his death was by her hand. Again, it made less that no sense but his world- the whole world- seemed to be unraveling anyway. So, he waited for the third arrow.

And waited.

And waited some more.

After what felt like an hour, he lowered his aching arms and looked back.

She was gone. He was free to go.

“Those weren’t warning shots,” Rona interrupted.

“What?”

“I meant to kill you. Both times,” she said, twirling an ebony arrow between her thumb and forefinger.

Probably louder than necessary, “ _What?_ ”

“And I missed. Twice.”

“ _What?!"_  Now, he was shouting.

“Stop that.”

“I mean, you _never_ miss.”

“With exactly two exceptions,” Rona set the arrow aside and leveled a frigid glare across the fire, “Now that I know it was you, I can redeem myself…” She reached for her bow.

Squeaking, “What?“

“I’m joking.”

“Oh,” he breathed, “That’s- that was. Please don’t- could you _smile_ or something so I know?”

Rona did him one better and laughed. Well, she snorted, squeaked as she ran out of air, before gasping and snorting again. Erik found himself laughing at her laughter, and they laughed together for different reasons. The fire danced with their strangely synchronized rhythm and continued to cackle as they sat in strangely companionable silence.

“I thought you looked familiar,” The girl began, shifting to lean her back on the cave wall and stretch her legs, “Not just when I tried to shoot you, but before that. I saw a boy in Helgen who looked… Not angry, afraid, or resigned like the rest of them, but _sad_. Um. Like he was sorry to see me go-”

It wasn’t a question, but Erik nodded. _Transparent_.

“-I could have sworn I knew him from somewhere. It was nice to think someone would mourn my death even for a few moments, and I was glad the last face I’d see was yours. Someone familiar. It sounds strange. Um…”

“No. It makes sense.”

For once, that wasn’t a lie.

Erik hoped the burning color of his cheeks could be attributed to his recent fit of laughter, or the cold, or anything but what it really was. He didn’t tell Rona about what happened to the world ( _his_ world) when their eyes first met, only that he saw her and got an odd feeling like everything went sideways. She probably thought it was hyperbole.

This… It wasn’t _that kind of_ confession. She spoke in the same calm, liquid voice that (like everything else except her laughter) reminded him of rain. No, it was not what he wanted, as odd as it might be to want something like that from _her_ of all people, but leagues beyond what he thought possible.

“So you _did_ see me.”

“I’m not blind, and I was looking right at you. So... What happened next?”

“I heard from Arvel that there was a village…”


	6. Riverwood

There was a village called Riverwood in the shadow of the Barrow. Instead of at his intended destination, Erik found himself in front of three standing stones that looked more than a little familiar. Went a little further and found the entrance to a cave… _Oh_.

“Everything looks different in the daylight,” he muttered, embarrassed though there were no witnesses to his shame. He turned back to the stones, and chose the warrior while eyeing the thief. He thought about Arvel’s instructions, of the coin purse he stole and the shadows… A shadow. Three arrows, more silent than a whisper. A fourth and fifth-

He shook his head and decided there was no use trying, with someone like _that_ around. No, the warrior stone suited him just fine.

The journey to Riverwood was uneventful. He strayed from the path to chase a stag. It got away, and the road was nowhere in sight.

So, Erik was lost again.

It was well after dark when he dragged his aching feet to the Sleeping Giant Inn. He rented a room and nearly cleared all the tables of food in a rampage driven by raw hunger. After more than a week of surviving on skeever flesh and piss mead (and a day of eating old tomatoes) one could hardly blame him.

Then, he slept like the dead- or a draugr after you put them down the second time. Double death. And he dreamed-

“I dreamt about-“ He cleared his throat “-Well, a lot of things, and a lot of things I can’t remember. That’s unimportant to… To the story. Sorry, got sidetracked. You’re probably not interested in-” And Erik coughed for a full minute.

When he finished, the space across the fire was empty.

Where did she-

“Here. Drink this.”

“Ah!”

Oh. There she was, offering a flask of… Something. Probably _not_ poison?

“Um. It’s not poison,” Rona answered, though he didn’t ask.

Erik took a sip, a glup-

“I’m not a girl.”

-then choked and sputtered.

“What?” He rasped after yet another fit, eyes flitting from her face to her chest and back.

“I mean I’m six-and-twenty. My age,” she elaborated when he continued to sputter and blink, “You keep calling me a _girl_.”

While telling the story, Erik occasionally said “she” or “her” or “the girl” instead of “you.” It was a product of lingering disbelief, that after all this time, all those times, she (“you”) was (“are?”) here.

“So am I,” Erik said after much throat clearing.

“Really? You look much younger, _boy_.”

“I have a beard.” It was not the most intelligent retort.

“Is that what it is?”

Erik rubbed his face self-consciously and glared. Opened his mouth, sighed, and decided not to dignify the ‘question’ with a response. “Anyway, _as I was saying_ …”  

Lucan Valerius was a slimy little man with a grating voice and that air of stale dishonesty unique to traders. It was hate at first sight.

“Five hundred for that measly scrap of silver?” Erik almost shouted.

The Imperial flashed a sleazy grin and wiggled his eyebrows grotesquely. “It’s a powerful enchanted item.”

“No, it’s a _barely_ enchanted piece of _shit_ ,” The Nord countered, holding it between two fingers and squinting. The ring appeared to ripple like a mirage- but only when he squinted so hard, his eyes almost closed. Calling it “barely enchanted” was a gross exaggeration. “I’ll give you one hundred.”

“Four-fifty. I’ll throw in a whole sack of potatoes. You’re a big lad. I’m sure you have quite an appetite.”

“One-fifty, so you can keep those potatoes _and_ all your teeth.”

Lucan laughed heartily, unfazed by the threat. “I like you, boy.”

Translation: He would not budge. Fine. Not that Erik, as a _warrior_ , had much use for enhanced sneaking.

“You know what? Show me your spell books. We’ll talk about the ring later,” he sighed, setting it on the counter.

That’s when he spotted it: a golden claw. Same shape, size, and even with the same markings on the back as Arvel’s. But _how_? Could she- no. Forget the girl. There was something else… Something about the Thieves’ Guild. A reward.

Lucan still had his back turned, rummaging through a cupboard and muttering “Now I know I put these somewhere.”

Erik didn’t waste another moment. He slipped the ring on one finger and the claw into the pouch at his hip, backed away slowly, and slipped out the door.

Then, he ran like hell.

(The wrong way, as usual, without noticing the dragon flying overhead.)


	7. The Western Watchtower

Erik didn’t think much of the first dead guard in his path. He stripped the corpse, found a shady cluster of trees, and donned the Whiterun hold armor along with the boots and helmet. Lucan Valerius might have hired mercenaries or put out a bounty. They would be looking for a Nord with a band of blue war paint across his eyes and a scar on his lip; with the helmet and its two small eyeholes, Erik couldn’t see much, but they wouldn’t see him.

“One less thing to worry about,” he said to no one in a voice muffled by steel.

There was another dead guard down the road. Erik found a battleaxe on her body, and decided a two-handed weapon was better than the wooden shield and half-rusted mace he found on the last one. He slung it across his back and continued towards what he hoped were the Whiterun stables, where the carriage was.

The thing about light armor was… Well, it was _light_. The lack of weight was disorienting. Erik found himself running a little too fast though with the helmet, he couldn’t see the ground or anything else not directly in front of him. He stumbled on a twig, a rock and- Oh.

Another guard.

No, a _trail_ of dead guards leading to the tower in the distance. A smoking tower and- What the _fuck_ was that noise? Erik shifted his gaze eastward and saw the high walls of the Whiterun capital, _much_ further away than they should be. He glanced at the chaos surrounding the smoking building, turned, and ran the other way.

Not today, not tomorrow, not _ever_. No thank you.

Turns out, he didn’t have a choice in the matter, as Erik finally approached the carriage driver and drew a breath to say, “How much for a ride to Riften?” A swarm of guards rushed by.

“You there, stop lollygagging!”

“I wasn’t-“

“No time to waste. There’s a dragon to be slayed!”

“No, you don’t-“

“Join your comrades _guard_ , or I will be forced to detain you _permanently_. The Yarl has no use for cowards in the face of the apocalypse.”

The Dunmer drew her bow and aimed it at his knee. The dizzying familiarity of the situation combined with the lack of air in that blasted helmet made Erik sway on his feet and stumble one step backwards.

“ _Well_?” She demanded.

“Alright,” Erik sighed and went to fight a dragon with the red-haired elf following close behind.

Rona’s mouth twitched periodically as he spoke. Eventually, she bit her lower lip and clenched her jaw, but said nothing, so Erik ignored her and continued. Then, she pressed her hand to her mouth and began to shake and squeak, eyes shining with tears of mirth, and he couldn’t take it anymore.

“ _What_?”

“No, it’s- It’s nothing. Please, don’t mind me.”

“I was trying not to.”

“Fine, fine. Give me a minute.”

Rona composed herself and cracked when she glimpsed his expression, repeating the process several times before explaining, “I watched the battle from the top of the keep, and there was this guard… He took one look at the dragon, dropped his weapon, and sprinted away- well, in a circle,” she motioned with her finger, “like he didn’t have any sense of direction, so he ended up behind Irileth. The idiot turned and ran again, and was back at the dragon, um, he went for his weapon,” she reached behind her back to mimic the motion, “but there was nothing there because he dropped it, so he ran back and- Oh gods, I never laughed like this before. Please Erik, don’t tell me that was you.”

He said nothing.

She gasped. “It was!”

Indignant, “We can’t all be the _fucking_ Dragonborn, can we?”

“I wish,” she laughed, before giving him a look that he took as his queue to continue.

“And as if the dragon wasn’t bad enough…”

It was down to him, the Dunmer, and two other guards. The dragon was too drained of health and magicka to fly so it hissed, snapped, and spat fire. Erik crept in its shadow to put himself out of the elf woman’s line of sight. He rocked back on his heels to turn and –finally, for the last time- _run_ when something tapped the side of his helmet. A pebble, he thought dimly, though how or why seemed irrelevant. The dragon screamed, turning violently to face him. It was crying blood, crying because of the cave in Helgen. A bear that appeared to be asleep, only it was dead, just like this dragon wasn’t really crying red tears- someone shot it through the eye.

A light wind ghosted across his exposed bicep. A dark shape jumped –no, _glided_ like a water over rock- onto the beast’s neck. There was a wet squelching noise, an ear-piercing shriek, followed by a dull thud. The ground trembled from the force of the dragon’s fall. Erik stumbled backwards, too stunned to remember he was supposed to be running, and what he saw made him stop breathing.

Who else stood on the dead dragon’s head, if not _her_.

The pebble he felt on his helmet was actually the scrape of an arrow that narrowly missed piercing his skull. There’s nothing else it could have been, and still, it found its mark.

She never misses. She never misses, and if she saw him- No. The helmet. So, he was saved by the thing that condemned him. Of course.

They were surrounded by corpses, but she was completely unscratched. Rona wore the dull blue robes of a novice mage and held two translucent, rippling swords that shattered out of existence when she lowered her hands. Erik stared because it was her, and he was helpless to do little else. He stared because she killed a dragon in the time it took him to blink thrice, and continued to stare because she was radiant, glowing, the _most beautiful_ -

He cleared his throat and concluded, “The dragon was nothing but bone when it –you- finished... _Absorbing its soul_.”

“Guess I never heard it said out loud.”

“What’s it like?” To devour the soul of an immortal being, hold the fate of the world in your hands, be _extraordinary_. Erik said none of these things, but he knew she heard them just the same.

“Um. Let me think. Try to imagine…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone catch the 'arrow to the knee' reference? Sorry, couldn't resist.


	8. The Sunrise

Skooma, moon sugar, sleeping tree sap: all those highs swirled together and amplified tenfold could not compare to _this_. In those precious moments, Rona tasted starlight, heard the sliver laughter of the sun, touched the pure velvet darkness that existed before, within, without _everything_. She saw a shape and color that could only be described as _love,_ pure, infinite, an unconditional. She _felt_ so fully, _felt_ herself ripping at the seams, _felt_ like she was falling back in time, back to end-

What should have been _her_ end, to the boy with golden hair and summer-blue eyes, the last thing she wanted to see of this wretched world of so much nothing. There it was, finally _something_ , but too late.

Too late, no, not too late. Too soon, though she didn’t die that day and didn’t die today, and wouldn’t or couldn’t die for many days to come. What was _time_ to a dragon? She lived a thousand years a thousand years ago, and would live forever when it all comes to an end. The vision of love changed to air, so she breathed, drowned, dissolved, and felt it consume, flood, _destroy_ her.

As she wished it would.

The wave peaked, crashed and retreated, leaving her gasping in the present. The present-

“-Is the best I can describe it, though words could never, um. I’ve had at least thirty by now and each time is a little different, but just as _good_ as the first.”

Erik’s pupils dilated until only a sliver of iris remained. His cheeks flushed, brows furrowed, hands clenched and unclenched repeatedly. The boy – _man_ \- was brash, impulsive, and tempermental. His aura snapped and smoldered like wildfire. He moved in plated steel as if it were lighter than silk and handled a giant battleaxe like it was no more than a wooden stick. With that strength, he could face enemies head-on instead of waiting in shadows for the opportune moment and express himself effortlessly, without reservation. Rona envied him.

Erik admitted his mistakes freely and wore his heart in his eyes- eyes that regarded her with an unmistakable warmth. She wanted to tell him to spit it out. She wanted to unravel her braid, lean closer, watch him blush and stutter, and ask with perfect innocence ‘what’s the matter?’ She wanted to touch the scar on his lip, wipe away the war-paint on his cheek, and taste the thrumming pulse at his throat.

But more than anything else, Rona wanted to hear the rest of the story.

“So…” She prompted.

“What? I was just-” blatantly staring at her lips “-Processing what you, um, _that_.”

How did someone with absolutely no sense of discretion (or _direction_ , for that matter) manage to join the Thieves’ Guild?

She didn’t say it quite like that, of course. “Did you make it to Riften?”

Erik paid the fee at the gate, which was his first mistake.  There were many more after that but somehow, six wrongs took him right to the Ragged Flagon.

“Not an another one. Did Brynjolf send you, boy?”

“Who?” Erik coughed, inhaled sharply, then suppressed a gag at the thick aroma of decaying flesh and sewer slime.

The bald man uncorked a bottle of Blackbriar mead with his teeth. “Then how the bloody hell did you find this place?”

“Long story,” Erik sighed, scrubbing at the grime on his face and wincing at a cut that smarted under his touch.

“Make it short or get the fuck out,” he said before downing the rest of his drink.

Erik shuffled his feet awkwardly, feeling his face heat with frustration and a tinge of embarrassment. The bald man slammed his bottle down, and glared. “Well?”

Erik tossed him the pouch with the golden claw. “Arvel sends his regards.”

“How did you get this? No, I know. Long story. One hundred.”

“No deal,” Erik said, grabbing the claw back. Or he would have, if it hadn’t… _disappeared_.

“You’re lucky to be getting that much, stealing what should have been ours in the first place.“

Erik felt his temper flare. To go through all this trouble, come all this way, for one hundred measly Septims- it was almost too much to handle. His fingers twitched towards the axe on his hip. A hush fell over the room as six glares prickled him simultaneously.

Okay, new plan. Erik decided to use his head.

“Name a price for the man who killed your traitor?”

“ _You_ killed Arvel?”

Erik said nothing. The bald man took it as a ‘yes.’

 “-The rest is history and a lot of dumb luck.”

‘Luck’ was one word for it.

 

“I went back to the Riverwood Trader for the claw. Valerius gave me a hundred Septims just for its return. The right fence might have easily offered a thousand.”

“For you,” he grumbled.

“Hm?”

“Nevermind. The next time I saw you was in Solitude. It was…”

A simple burglary job: retrieve the golden ship model from Evette San’s house. Erik picked the lock on the third try, narrowly avoiding the attention of the passing guard. The ship was on open display. People really should lock up their valuables, not that he was complaining. Erik slipped it into one of the many pockets of his Thieves Guild armor and silently slipped out.

The armor was excellent, mind you, but just a little… Tight. And light in a way that made him unbalanced and clumsy. (Or more so than usual, which was saying something.)

He then went to the Winking Skeever and got stinking drunk. A dark-haired, green-eyed Breton woman sat next to him and smiled sweetly. Once upon a time, she would have made for an excellent diversion. But just then, the shape of curls and collarbone reminded him of something he was trying to forget (though he didn’t quite want to). Erik finished the tankard, nodded politely, and rose from his seat. He kept his hood up and head down as he-

“You want _me_ to trust _him_ with _my_ _things_?”

Talos save him. This could not be happening.

The Wood Elf threw his hands in the air with a huff.

“Oh, I see. Because I’m a Bosmer, I must be a thief.”

Rona opened her mouth, closed it, and took a deep breath before saying, “You’re a stranger. I don’t trust you. There must another way, Delphine.”

“I’m afraid not,” replied a Nord woman in leather armor.

“Fine. If anything happens to _my_ _things_ , I will-“

“Kill me?”

“And make you my thrall for eternity, yes. Here, take them and get out of my sight.”

The Bosmer complied eagerly.

She wore the robes of a master conjurer. This was _not_ a joke.

“Meet me at the stables when you’re ready,” Delpine said and left.

 

“I was joking.”

“What?”

“About making Malborn my thrall.”

“Oh. That’s… Good?”

“I’d rather have you,” Rona said, knowing perfectly well what that sounded like, while pretending she didn’t. It was the truth.

“You would _have_ me.”

“Um. Yes. Anyway, I remember a man in Guild armor _trying_ to sneak out the door. You were loud."

Erik nodded, averting his gaze.

"That’s how the rest of the story goes, isn’t it? You were…”

 

-the man in plated steel who fought (distracted) the Elder dragon that arrived shortly after the untimely death (assassination) of Gaius Maro in Dragonbridge. Erik was the Storm cloak soldier who took one look at her, dropped his Warhammer, and fled the battle of Whiterun. He was the miner loitering dangerously close to the supposedly secret sanctuary in Dawnstar. He was- he was _everywhere_.

Rona remembered the morning after her drinking contest with Sanguine. She recalled glimpses of a dream that turned out to be a memory. A tall stranger with warm hands caught her as she stumbled out the tavern, determined to kidnap a goat from a giant. She thanked him with a kiss. The rest of the night remained, to this day, a perfect void.

 

“-And that was Rorikstead,” she finished.

Birds chirped in the silence that followed. Mist hovered above the grass outside the cave as the sky faded from black to grey. The fire died.

She waited for him to speak. 

“I tried not to think about all the- all those coincidences. It’s ridiculous. I can’t believe all that happened, and I can’t believe _this_ is happening now.” Every syllable smoldered with frustration. 

“That’s because there’s no such thing.”

Erik waited in vain for the rest of that sentence.

Rona stood in a blink and adjusted the bow to her back.

“What are you doing?”

“It’s not time yet. You have a lot to learn, and I have a few things to take care of.” If that wasn’t the understatement of the millennium.

“I don’t understand.”

Neither did she, but Rona felt the current of the river that engulfed the universe. This flow of time and space brought her to each destination in perfect synchrony. An invisible hand ensured she was never lost, injured, or killed, against all odds. In that moment, a voice more powerful than her own told her what she had to do.

“We’ll meet again someday.”

The Dragonborn clenched her fist over an invisibility spell and vanished in a shimmer of violet.

Erik the Unremarkable watched the sunrise alone. He decided, against logic, reason, and the laws of probability, to believe her.

It was a start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first story I've ever finished. I'm still on the fence about an epilogue, which would take place at the end of the main quest, at the start of the Dragonborn DLC. Not any time soon, for sure.  
> Sorry this took literally a year. I have no excuses.  
> Irrelevant note: as I wrote the line "He was- he was everywhere," that old Michelle Branch song started playing in my head. It fits the story perfectly.


	9. Something

There was more of everything in the Bannered Mare: more Nords, more drinks, more shouting, more fucking, more singing.

More more and too much, but never enough.

Erik sat alone in the darkest corner, downing drink after drink, trying to feel something, other than the nothingness that filled his heart with strange fog. His hear was too clear.

The past hundred days were… Utterly forgettable. He became a better thief, and lost interest in stealing. He became a stronger warrior, and was bored by battle. He was named Thane of Whiterun for killing giants, bandits, vampires, and gaining favor with the townspeople.

The title was utterly meaningless. He couldn’t even pretend to care, which, oddly, impressed the Jarl even more.

He bought a house in the city, spent his days sleeping, and his nights drinking.

“One hundred fucking days,” he sighed, and gestured to Sadia for another bottle of mead.

Erik didn’t know what happened that day. He never found the answer to the Dragonborn’s riddle, but he lost something important and intangible. And it was-

Really, why was everyone so excited? Did he miss something?

The atmosphere reminded him of the day the Jarl and his men (and _her_ , the one he refused to think of by name) trapped a dragon inside the castle. Which was… Something. Terrifying? Brilliant? Damned if he knew.

“Didn’t you hear?”

“Hear what?” He sighed, not bothering to look up.

It was a woman. Probably seeking a night of companionship, which Erik wanted no part of.

“Alduin is dead. The Dragonborn killed him.”

This got his attention.

“What- you!”

“Of course it’s me. Who else?”

The woman sat before him and pulled back her hood. As before, Erik was mesmerized.

Shortly after, he noticed the changes: a chalky palor to her rich, deep complexion, the disproportionate length of her canines, and of course, the eyes. Her once black irises were now an iridescent, unmistakable  gold.

And he was…

Well, _appalled_ is an understatement.

Erik gulped down the rest of the mead and slammed the bottle down so hard, it cracked. He didn’t care.

“You didn’t.”

She raised a brow and waited for him to elaborate. Erik glared.

“You’re one of _them_.”

“An Imperial? That didn’t bother you before.”

“Don’t do this. I have no-“ not time. He seemed to have too much of that lately “-more patience. You don’t know what you put me through.”

The words were out before he could stop them. Erik didn’t know what happened that night, but he lived every day afterwards in a world without boundaries or color. He gained a sense of direction for the first time in his life, and lost all sense of wonder or purpose.

It all started with her. Her face, her voice, her presence, her promise. Just… _Her_.

No, he wasn’t in love. Erik had been in love before, at least twice, and whatever this was didn’t come near those other experiences. He wasn’t simply infatuated, either. Such feelings would have faded easily in her absence.

Erik didn’t know how to explain this to himself, much less _her_ , but he knew the cause.

But from the subtle shift in her expression, he thought she understood.

“You’ve become like me.”

“A fucking vampire? How much skooma did you drink, woman?”

The Imperial flinched, almost imperceptibly. Erik took note, and if he was capable of any sort of feeling, he might have felt bad about it. So, she was sensitive about her (addiction was too strong a word. The Dragonborn wasn’t prone to that sort of thing) obsession.

“The way you’ve been feeling,” she continued, seemingly unphased, “That’s how I felt. All the time before we- Which means…”

“What?”

She shrugged.

“I’m afraid to say it out loud. Oh-“ and here comes the nonsequiter because this woman had an incredibly short attention span, “Come with me.”

Erik squinted and gripped the table to keep from swaying in his seat. The prospect- proposal- what-the-fuck-ever you want to call it- _didn’t_ excite him. It _didn’t_ bring the slightest flush to his cheeks for the first time in months. It _didn’t_ make his blood simmer, hum, and sing in his veins. It most certainly didn’t bring the first spark of color into this otherwise dull, grey, _boring_ world.

“It seems you’re in need of a thrall,” he forced through his teeth.

Let’s make something perfectly clear: Erik _wasn’t_ clenching his jaw because he was stifling the need to shout ‘yes, please, by Talos, take me and do whatever you want, you know I’m already yours’ or any such nonsense. No. He was… Angry. Right, livid.

Because she made herself a fucking vampire.

By any standard, that should be (was, damnit!) unacceptable.

“No, I _want_ a companion,” she reached forward and touched his hand. Her skin was cold. He answered just as the word “You” left her lips.

“Alright-“ fuck! “Wait, are you-“

“Using my _vampire powers_ on you? Of course not. It hasn’t advanced to that point. To be honest, I hate this. Never thought I’d miss the sun. The first order of business is to cure myself.”

“And then?” Erik should have pulled his hand away, said no, walked away, anything but what he did next.

He didn’t. He couldn’t- no, _wouldn’t_. His pride was not worth the price of a world without color.

Rona twisted her slim fingers in the spaces between his own and Erik- Erik was totally fucked.

“We join the Dawnguard.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was drunk and these two "lovebirds" refuse to leave me the fuck alone.


End file.
